


what a time to be alive

by theletterv (badletter)



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Coping, Drug Use, Other, Self-Mutilation, friendship!, updated with some fixes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badletter/pseuds/theletterv
Summary: quiet observations.
Relationships: Ocelot & Quiet (Metal Gear), Quiet & Venom Snake (Metal Gear)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	what a time to be alive

There’s a song playing on the radio.

It’s familiar but she can’t place it. Her foot taps against the side of the cell as if the body remembers what her mind can’t. That’s a funny thought. All she has left is her mind.

The body and the one that covers are one in the same now, working to remember bone then muscle then skin and how it shapes into the one that is Quiet. Curve of hips, breasts, each notch in her spine, each strand of hair. The body does a good job. She almost felt real.

They think she’s real enough too. They talk about her like she’s a monster, and she is, but that doesn’t keep their eyes away. Vulgar comments. Vulgar actions. She can’t hurt them, he would be upset. Three strikes, use them well. But she can put on a show for them.

She has once already. Draw them in, strip down. They watched like they were starved. And then she kept going, pulled away skin, dug in, further and further. They wouldn’t let her keep the knife so she had to use her hands. Prying the skin from her arms, her face. The parasites collected around her feet in piles, pulsing. There was pain, or the memory of it. But it was worth it to see them squirm. One even threw up. She laughed, choking on her own blood, and that sent the rest away. 

He had still been upset. 

The body was still putting itself back together when he returned. So many little pieces trying to fit back together as she laid there and listened to the radio, let her skin suffocate against the bench so she wouldn’t feel so much. No words, just that expression. Like it wanted to be anger but his face wasn’t meant for it. 

That eye of his was so sad. So much pity in that gaze. She wanted to pull it out. Dig her teeth in. Let her parasites taste him and maybe she would understand. 

More, more, more, says the radio.

It has been a long week. Two weeks. Longer? It is hard to remember. She sees the sun come and go, and him along with it, but the days blur together in the cell. There’s so many voices and faces and names, none of them real. 

The fakest of all, the Ocelot, the great liar with his spurs and bad facial hair, talks to her the most. It is a bizarre kindness. Insincere, but not malicious. She wonders why he bothers. 

She never responds. She takes in the words but they slough off, mixing and dripping with that ever present sheen of sweat. Slow blink while she focuses on the music instead. Like a dumb animal. It thrums nicely under her skin, her parasites happy and sluggish. He realizes the distraction, turns off the music. Tries again. Then she just lays there. Slow blink. There is no progress, but if there is any frustration he keeps it neatly packed away. 

Even if she won’t speak or write he still hasn’t dragged her down to that room, he still extends an olive branch. A promise to let her out. “Out” like she’s “in” at all. This cage doesn’t hold her, it’s so morale doesn’t drop any further. And the body is scattered throughout Mother Base anyway. 

Bits of hair and nail and teeth taking in the sights and sounds. Sunning themselves along the platforms, tucking in against the corners that get just enough light to keep them satiated. Searching for him. Her parasites live and breathe outside heaven. 

But this Out lets her shoot again. Supervised, of course. And the Ocelot lets her know he has means of putting her down. Holds out those syringes full of God knows what. 

She doesn’t even know what works on her. The parasites metabolize and reconstruct in such an alien way and no one ever explained what it all meant for her. Not like she would understand. She was mostly competent muscle and now she’s a dumb plant. 

But he knows his way around drugs. And he likes to hurt. Reeks like the torturer he is. Reeks like the junkie he is. 

The body remembers... something. A good hit led to a good night led to a good hit. Buzzing under her skin. Bright lights and bodies and hands and in the morning she thought she was going to die. He looks like he’s dying. 

She’ll be good. The conditions don’t matter as long as she has a gun in her hands. 

It doesn’t really make sense, though. He is not so stupid as to let attraction impact his behavior. At least not towards her. He is not interested in women, that is plain as day. There is no hunger in his eyes when he looks at her. 

It’s there when he looks at the broken, rotting man with his rotten eyes. It’s even there sometimes when he looks at him. Maybe it’s to spite the former. That hunger is devoid of any love, any tenderness. The Ocelot’s eyes don’t soften the way his does. 

That man... the Commander. His body is falling apart. His parasites rot behind those stupid sunglasses, but she knows he would be as good as blind without them. His body protests with every movement, pain and anger weighing heavy on his frame. If only he would let himself bloom.

He has called her many things, her favorite so far is “swamp whore.” He would happily see her skewered before him. He’d do it himself. He’s very spirited. 

He does not like that the Ocelot gives her a gun. He does not like that he insists that she would be beneficial to The Boss. He reaches real hysterics when the Ocelot says she could go with him on missions. 

She is a freak. She is dangerous. He can protect the boss with his words and his guidance and his resources. They don’t need anyone else. She hears it in his voice, that desperation. That love. 

She sits there, impassive. Quiet. That just makes him angrier. She cannot defend herself and feels no reason to. She isn’t here to take him away. Not anymore, anyway. Not after she let him take her here. And then she saved his life. And then she decided she would never speak again. And now she stays in her cell.

She feels the sun on her skin, the gritty ocean humidity. Her parasites are watching every angle. The slight tremor in the Ocelot’s red hands. The sweat beading on the Commander’s forehead, mingling with the unwashed hair that clings. The recruits eavesdropping just out of sight. A helicopter is approaching. He is home. 

There is a pull. She will follow him. 

The song on the radio has changed.

With time, they let her go with him. 

She watches his back. She listens to orders. Sometimes she doesn’t. He thanks her all the same. They get home safe.

She sees him lose himself. Often. There is a deep place he slips into. He hurts for the sake of hurting. She watches his back all the same. The ride home will be heavy with the smell of blood. 

He likes animals. She sits on her perch and watches with mild interest as he corrals sheep, goats, donkeys. The wild fear bleeds into trust so quickly with treats and soft words and a hand over a pelt. He can be so gentle. He looks so happy. 

He’s started teaching her finger spelling with their own kind of shorthand. It won’t help much in the middle of a firefight but something about it is still nice. The words are sticking now.

He tells her about a girl who died. How he took the bombs out of her body. How he speaks to her every time he comes home. Brings her gifts. Flowers and tapes and photos left like a shrine in an empty room that isn’t empty. She traces what letters she remembers into the palm of his red hand. 

It is almost frightening how quickly they adapt to each other. 

She spends a lot of time in the helicopter now. She sees the pictures; his animals and his people and her. She hasn’t looked in a mirror since she died. The mind recognizes the body but the body does not. It still stirs something to see the face next to the Commander, the Ocelot, the dog, the horse. Everything he is so fond of, one way or another. This is his home away from home and he has made her a part of it as much as anyone else. Perhaps what she feels is fond, too.

The pilot is funny. Pequod. Ahab and Ishmael and Pequod, the mind knows. Haha. He doesn’t say vulgar things to her. He’s not even afraid of her, anymore. That’s nice. He just sweats like a pig when she sits too close, chest against his shoulder as she looks out at the world around them. He has this funny laugh. She mimics it once and it comes out wrong but he still tries to talk to her. Comments about the weather, asks how her day has been. It’s so mundane she can’t help but smile. 

He is the only one who smiles at her. It is a funny, lopsided thing that tugs around his scar. The body mimics what it can. It feels strange on the face. The pilot seems to accept it. 

The day goes on. 

Everything feels remarkably rote. 

Eliminate so-and-so, but Boss, he could have good intel, why not extract him. Rescue such-and-such. Get rid of these tanks. Bring in that weapon. Day in, day out. She does good. They come home. The Commander and the Ocelot are often there to greet them. 

The former will give her one of his looks, she’ll stick out her tongue. Later she’ll kick his crutch out from under him when he’s alone, laugh that funny, gasping laugh she took from the pilot but never perfected. Schoolyard bullying is progress. The latter gives her one of those thin smiles. He's been doing worse lately.

Now they’re going to Africa. Something itches at her. An ache deep in her corpse. 

It’s more of the same until they find the children. 

The mind doesn’t remember feeling much about children. They’ve always made her feel alien. But he and the Commander all at once come to a decision. Shots ring out and his voice is so weary as he tells her to cover him. 

Four, no, five little bodies. A low hum. She always gets them home. 

He let her use the real gun this time. It feels good. Muted as it hits nicely against her shoulder and they drop one after the other. Blood coats the air. The mine will be still before they depart. 

His breath is coming in short, she can hear it over the fear in the little voices. She hums for him. The pilot comes. They go home.

The children are hollow-eyed and carry an exhaustion she has never seen in something so small. Two huddle together, speaking quietly until they cannot keep their eyes open. Another two have attached themselves to him already. One is the injured child who he carried with care and looked over as soon as they were in the clear. They are leaned against him, sound asleep. These children look so troubled even at rest.

The fifth is with her. They had sat beside her and simply stared. She had stared back until she caught his eye and he gave her a worn smile. The face mirrored the expression and the child accepted it. A head turned to rest against her arm, cushioned by fluffy hair. She keeps so still.

The Commander insists on a show when they return to Mother Base. She cannot understand berating these little things. Each of them could drop dead with a stiff breeze, and the one needs immediate medical attention. She scowls and is gone before it can be directed at her. 

She overhears later the children will be given an attempt at a normal life. They will never be normal, but it is a nice thought. 

And then they find more.

There is enough blood that even she is unnerved. The smell of death and rot and blooming is heavy here and she thinks she’s going to be sick. She’s not even sure if she can be sick anymore. Her focus won’t hold and she’s coming apart but she has to watch his back. 

There are so many bodies. Not just children, but many still. Small and broken. Littered among countless others half-dead. The full-dead just left there until they bloom. The parasites pulse and writhe and decay beneath the skin. There are so many voices. The mind remembers. Lives superimposed. 

He finds the boy. Shabani, they called him. There is nothing to be done. His necklace is taken and then it all goes to shit. It all blurs. Burns. Dry, dry heat. It hurts. She’s going to die again just like before and it hurts and her parasites are screaming and she’s scared. She doesn’t know it’s over until he is yelling himself hoarse for her. 

The pilot comes. They go home. 

In the helicopter she pulls herself together, dumps a canteen on herself. The body gets to work. Wounds blister and scab and flake. Some of her hair hangs loose in her face, edges singed or melted against her scalp. Her parasites cannibalize themselves, taking in dead matter. 

They sit together. He is so far away. 

The Commander is barking over the radio, harsh and clipped to cover the fear. The Ocelot’s drawl follows, tone even and well-practiced. She turns off communications and looks to the pilot. Their voices are coming through him now, concerned. He gives a nod. His voice is soft.

“This is Pequod. En route to Mother Base. The Boss is... Respectfully, he needs some rest. Sir.” 

The chattering peters out. A start. A stop. A sigh. An okay. A bring him home. 

She pulls his head to her shoulder. He is big but she is tall. His forehead presses into her neck, skin on skin. His beard prickles against her collarbone. They fit together nicely. His thick taste of mud and blood and smoke seeps into her. She takes hand in hand, fingers trace his letter in his palm. 

_V, V, V._

His gaze is long. Refuses to connect. Her throat is so dry. The body hardly remembers how to shape the sound, push it out. One syllable won’t hurt. It is vague and far from unique to English. Teeth dig into cheek at the thought. She still hasn’t told anyone, but she didn’t think she’d need to. She would ruin them or they would kill her. She didn’t think she’d be in the belly of the beast with him.

“V,” she says, once. Strained and rough. It vibrates under his skin. Settles in his skull, warm. His hand twitches in hers, fingers folding around fingers. He presses in closer. It is suffocating but she will manage for him. He is coming back to her.

They sit in silence for the remainder of the ride. The pilot gives her these strange little glances, as though he’s witnessed a miracle. She is too tired, too covered to muster anything in response. 

When they get home he is able to stand on his own, puts on that empty face. When he clambers out of the chopper his Commander is there. His jaw is set, body rigid and she knows it is taking everything not to cling to him, attach himself so surely he cannot be removed. She understands. So much that she is sure it will kill her.

The necklace is given to one of the children. The same that tucked themself against her. They do not weep. Not yet. These children know loss too well. The tears will come later, angry sobs muffled into a pillow. 

He is not good with words so he does not try. His Commander hobbles off and he trails along. They will spend their time together and when she sees him again he will reek freshly of the rot and stale sweat, no matter how many times he washes. It clings and marks him. 

There is a loneliness. Not jealousy. Her love for him is different. But she needs comfort and the Commander never learned to share. 

The Ocelot will have to do.

It’s difficult to tell if he’s bothered by her presence. This isn’t the first time she’s come to his office just to take up space, rifle through his things. She politely leaves her boots at the door along with her harness. Their companionship is a strange thing.

He’s been smoking, the room is hazy with it. Stronger stuff than what they put in his strange electronic cigar. He hasn’t told the Commander they’ve built themselves a dispensary. He sits slumped in his chair, ankles crossed atop his desk. His scarf and gloves in a neat pile. 

The mind recalls little but she is sure she has never seen scars quite like his. She doubts many have. This is the closest thing to intimacy they share. She hates how those gloves taste against her skin.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. it would be more remarkable if he had.

She is seated opposite him. She wonders if he picked uncomfortable chairs on purpose. Probably. He likes to watch people squirm. Her knees are pulled up to her chest but her tights make her feet slip against the hard plastic. She focuses on the sensation.

“Tixij.” 

He likes that name for her. Says it almost fond. She doesn’t mind it, just tilts her head towards him and lets her eyes slide to his. Better than that slow blink.

“Are you okay?” 

And there’s that gasping laugh, like a fish gasping for air. What a funny thing from him, of all people. She is shaking with those funny noises, fingers pressed hard into her eyes like she wants to dig them out. Shove them down his throat and let her parasites flood him so he can understand.

She doesn’t breathe anymore but she can still hyperventilate apparently. Tastes the carbon of her lungs at the back of her throat. Dry heaves for good measure. The body working through the memory of action.

He is beside her in the other uncomfortable chair now. A hand mangled with scars rests against her bare back, the other holds a blunt in front of her face. There are fingers where the nails don’t grow. His skin is dry and cool but the taste of the gloves lingers.

She takes the blunt. He lights it for her. The bitter taste of wormwood overtakes the carbon and it just tastes like him and she dry heaves again. The Ocelot’s face scrunches up in a funny way and she’s laughing in that hysterical way again. It fades into hiccups, sobs. Oily globs drag down her face.

She repeats the effort until her parasites feel gummy and slow. There’s a tackiness to her skin. She doesn’t know how it works. Her lungs could serve as charcoal but her parasites take in the smoke greedily. She’s thankful, at least.

He gives her a pat on the thigh. His look is that of complete understanding, somehow. She does not feel pitied, just seen. It’s more comforting than she’d like. 

“I'll take it that’s a no then.” 

Her head cocks to the side in confusion, like a dog. Until she remembers his earlier question. A hum, a shrug. She pokes a finger into his chest. _Are you?_

His own hum, his own shrug. 

“There’s work to be done.” 

She nods. There is.

**Author's Note:**

> [i was listening to cyber sex while editing this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDr9hRJqPX4)
> 
> an edit to say i do have things to add to this but i've been fussy with it (due to not planning more before posting this first part!! like a fool) and i'm gonna leave it for now, see u soon with more gf from the black lagoon hopefully.


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